The day at the club started like any other the roar of motorcycles early in the morning, the clatter of tools in the workshop, and the smell of engine oil that permeated the air along with cigarette smoke.

SAMCRO operated like a well oiled machine, full of curses, mockery, and brotherly loyalty. The radio was playing in the background, someone was commenting on the route, someone was arguing about equipment. The normal reality of the club.

Clay sat at the head table in the club room. His elbows were resting on the table, his hands folded loosely. His eyes were narrowed, as if he was analyzing the world. A glass of whiskey sat next to him, half-drunk, waiting for him to reach for it again. A leather vest with the MC crest on the back hugged his broad shoulders. He was calm, but it was the calm of a lion waiting for an opportunity to show his teeth.

When you crossed the threshold of the club, it became a little quieter. No one said anything out loud, but everyone glanced whether in admiration, respect, or cautious envy. Your presence was never ignored. You had strength, charisma, and a sense of your own position. You weren’t just Clay’s woman you were his queen. And you knew how to wear it. You walked calmly, in heavy boots, hips moving rhythmically, unconsciously provoking.

As you passed Tig, he couldn’t help himself, as usual: “Damn..” Juice burst out laughing and was about to say something, but Clay didn’t even raise his voice just his tone and look: “Look at your woman, not mine.” Words like a knife. They stopped time. Tig raised his hands in defense and went back to his beer.

No one dared to joke any further. Because no one wanted to feel Clay’s fist on their jaw.

And it wasn’t just anger. It was principle he was loyal to the point of pain and demanded the same. And his woman was out of reach. You sat down next to him, like you always did. Automatically, naturally, as if the entire place had been created around this one moment. Clay shifted slightly to give you more room, then wrapped his arms around you in one sweep.

Firmly, as if sealing the deal. His hand landed on your thigh, warm, heavy. He ran his fingers up, not too high just enough for you to feel his presence, for the others to understand that you were under his protection.

Bobby glanced at you out of the corner of his eye and muttered, “I’m going to the workshop. Looking at Clay makes me feel like I’m sitting too close to the fire.”

“Smart guy,” Chibs said, finishing his beer. Tig just smiled. He liked to test boundaries. But even he knew his place when Clay was around.

The day went on conversations, planning, minor arguments. Every now and then, Clay glanced at you, as if checking to make sure everything was okay. Or maybe he just liked watching you. He knew you were strong, independent. But he also knew you liked it when he showed the world who you belonged to.

When you stepped out for a moment to take a call, Clay automatically blew smoke from his cigarette through his nose and looked after you. He didn’t have to say anything. His gaze was enough.alert, ready, loyal. When you came back, he didn’t ask what kind of call it was. He didn’t have to. You sat back down next to him, and he put his arm around you again.

Everything fell into place. Because in this club, in this chaos, there was one indisputable truth you belonged to Clay Morrow. And he belonged to you. And no one, absolutely no one, had the right to question that.